State of Emergency (34 page)

 

V
alentine Zamora limped slightly from the bullet wound to his thigh. Nothing vital had been hit and some antibiotic under a few wraps of tape had made him as good as new. The wound had given him the perfect opportunity to slip away—and he would have stayed away but for the fickle Yazid Nazif. If he'd only kept with their original plan, he and his brother would still be alive to carry on with their jihad. But they hadn't, so there they were, dead on the grimy asphalt, along with their dreams.

Pastor Mike Olson stood grinning like a fool at the delivery entrance on the south end of the huge, drum-shaped building. He vouched for them with the overweight security guard at the loading dock.

“You have already given us so much, Mr. Valentine,” the pastor said, shaking his head in disbelief. “May I ask what is in the box? It looks heavy.”

Monagas wheeled the green footlocker containing Baba Yaga up the ramp, a forced smile on his crooked lips. Pollard slumped along behind, looking as if he'd been whipped.

“Merely some little gifts for the children,” Zamora said, flipping his hand.

“That is a large case,” Olson said. “But there are over three hundred in the chorus. Not to seem ungrateful, but I'd hate for any child to be left out.”

“Not to worry, my friend.” Zamora put up his hand. “College savings bonds take up very little space. There will be plenty for everyone.”

“I need to check it.” The security man walked toward them. Monagas's hand drifted toward the pistol under the tail of his sport coat. Zamora gave an imperceptible shake of his head.

“And you, Officer ... ?” Zamora looked at him sweetly.

“Potts,” the security guard said.

“How about you, Officer Potts? Do you have children?”

The man shook his head. “I got a nephew.”

“Is he in the choir?”

“No.”

“No matter.” Zamora gave a flip of his hand. “I'm sure a thousand-dollar savings bond would come in handy. Stop by and pick one up for him after the performance.”

The corners of the man's mouth perked with a hint of guile. “Well, okay,” he said. “I'll see you after the show.” He walked away whistling to himself, no doubt already making plans on how to spend the new windfall.

“My goodness,” Pastor Olson sighed after Potts had gone. “I don't understand you, Mr. Valentine. What have we all done to deserve this kindness?”

Zamora pointed to a series of thick concrete columns under the auditorium, motioning for Monagas to put the case there. He shot a glance at Pollard, who stared back with glassy eyes. “In my experience, Pastor”—Zamora clasped his hands together and held them to his lips—“at some point, we all get exactly what we deserve.”

 

A
ustin-Bergstrom International Airport's tower gave Major Moore clearance for an unscheduled landing after received a direct order from FAA brass. A maroon Ford Crown Victoria bristling with antennas waited on the tarmac, just off the taxiway.

Quinn thanked the pilots for the ride and climbed out of the bomber with Aleksandra to a Texas winter evening. The western horizon still glowed with a faint orange line and a crisp twilight had settled in.

A tall man in a tan golf jacket and a gray felt Stetson stood beside the sedan. Razor-sharp creases ran up the front of heavily starched blue jeans.

“Detective Lonnie Fulton, Austin PD.” He shook Quinn's, then Kanatova's hand in turn. “I'm assigned to the regional intelligence unit. We just got the call an hour ago that you were coming in.” Fulton spoke with a thick Texas accent, friendly and earnest.

“How far to the Erwin Center?” Quinn asked.

“Eight or ten miles,” Fulton said. “You wanta tell me what's going on?”

Quinn nodded toward the sedan. “You drive. I'll explain on the way.”

Detective Fulton was wide-eyed and quiet by the time he turned off I-35 frontage road and into the University of Texas campus. On Quinn's direction, he drove past the event center, watching and getting a lay of the land. Crowds of people milled around the entrances, chatting like good Southern folk as they worked their way in. The governor's motorcade had been delayed with a call from Palmer but had not been given a reason why.

“He's in there,” Aleksandra said from the backseat. “I can feel it.”

Quinn wondered if she meant Zamora or Monagas.

“Let's park in there.” He pointed toward a secluded lot across Red River Street, behind the nursing school. He looked at his watch—6:45.

A white Crown Vic pulled in next to them, followed by two marked sedans and two more motor officers on BMW RTs. A muscular man in a tight black T-shirt and 511 Tactical khaki slacks got out of the white unmarked and stood beside the door, arms crossed and sneering at the new arrivals. Quinn had seen the type before and was amazed the man wasn't already pissing at each corner of his vehicle to mark the territory.

Detective Fulton leaned in as they approached from their parking spot fifty feet away. Every other officer present had gathered around the frowning man as if the white sedan was a mother ship.

“That's Tony Hawker, lieutenant over SWAT. He's sort of an asshole, but his heart's in the right place.”

“We'll see,” Quinn said. He looked at Fulton's shirt pocket. “Is that a Sharpie?”

“Yep. I was marking case files when your boss called.” The detective took out the permanent marker and handed it to Quinn.

“Listen, Detective,” Quinn said when they were twenty feet out. “Good or bad, this is going to go fast.” He took out his phone and punched Palmer's number as he walked.

He looked at his watch again—6:47, and wondered if he'd feel the wind from the blast before it turned him to ash.

Palmer answered immediately. “Are you in place?”

“I have someone I need you to convince,” Quinn said, handing the phone to Lieutenant Hawker. The man took it and stepped away, clenching his square jaw as he listened. Palmer wasn't above putting the president on the line.

“Okay, gentlemen.” Quinn took charge immediately, gesturing with an open hand toward the Erwin Center. “Who's ever been below decks in there?”

A blond motor officer who reminded Quinn of a short-haired Bo raised his hand, looking sheepishly at his cohorts. “I've answered a couple of prowler calls,” he said.

Quinn handed him the permanent marker and nodded at the trunk of Hawker's white sedan. “I need you to draw me a diagram.”

The motor officer looked from the permanent marker to the lieutenant, then back again. His face went as pale as the clean white trunk. “I don't know. . . .”

Quinn pointed again to the car. “I need you to show me where you'd put a nuclear bomb if you were a terrorist.” He looked at his watch again—6:48. “And I need you to do it right now.”

“A nuclear bomb?” The motor officer bent over the trunk and began to draw.

“Listen up,” Hawker said, handing the phone to Quinn. “As far as I know, this guy's full of shit and his friend called me pretending to be the president.” He looked at Quinn, jaw muscles tensing; veins—which made inviting targets—pulsed on the side of his beefy neck.

“I thought you might say that.” Quinn shrugged. “Your phone will ring again in a second or two.”

Hawker's mouth fell open when he saw the black lines on the trunk of his otherwise spotless sedan. “What the hell, Reinhart?”

“He said there is a bomb, LT.”

“Give me that!” He snatched the marker and threw it against the curb, turning to point his finger at Quinn. “I don't know who you think you are—”

“If you touch him I will cut off your balls,” Aleksandra hissed, her voice thickly Russian.

Quinn shrugged again praying the phone would ring soon. “Frankly, I'm surprised she hasn't already clawed your eyes out.”

“I'm hauling you both to jail,” Hawker said. “We can sort this out there.” He reached to handcuff Quinn, but his phone rang. “Watch him,” he snapped at Fulton, taking the call.

“Yessir,” Hawker said into the phone, his entire body wilting. “No, I do not, sir. . . . Absolutely. . . . Mine? Right away, sir. . . . I will—” He hung up.

Fuming, Hawker pulled the Sig Sauer .45 from his holster and passed it to Quinn. “Reinhart, the chief says to give the Russian your sidearm.”

Quinn thanked him and tucked the weapon in his belt. Identical to OSI's issue sidearm but for the caliber, the Sig felt at home in his hand.

“Now,” he said. “I need you to pull everyone back as far as you can get.”

“How far is that exactly, smartass?” Hawker folded his arms again.

“Start driving now and keep going until you run out of gas,” Quinn said. “If he's in there, this guy is apt to arm the bomb any second so he'll have time to get away.”

“He does not know it,” Aleksandra chimed in. “But when this device is armed, it will go boom immediately.” She clapped her hands for effect, causing the young motor officer to jump. She leaned in to Hawker, blowing him a little kiss. “Too bad your chief called. You were about to touch my friend and I would have enjoyed keeping my word.”

Quinn looked at his watch for the last time.

It was 6:51.

 

 

Quinn used his OSI credentials to get past a pudgy security guard named Potts at the loading dock.

“Dammit! I knew it was too good to be true,” the guard said when Quinn described Zamora and Monagas. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “They put some sort of box in the boiler room. It's locked though so you can't get in.”

“How'd they get in?” Quinn said, eyeing the fat ring of keys hiding under the guy's muffin top.

“Well, shit, I'm sorry,” Potts said, embarrassed. “I can let you in.”

“Just give me the key,” Quinn said. “Then you get out of here. He's liable to shoot it out with us.” There was no way Quinn was going to tell this man about a bomb. He'd run upstairs and start a stampede.

Twenty seconds later Quinn and Aleksandra stood on either side of the metal door of the hall leading to the boiler room. The three hundred kids and at least fifteen thousand guests sat in the stadium only a few yards above them. The sound of thunderous applause echoed through the ventilation system.

“We need to stay quieter than the boilers,” he whispered, pulling Severance's curved blade from the scabbard under his jacket. “There won't be a second chance.” He left the pistol in his waistband. Aleksandra covered the door with her sidearm. She took a deep breath and nodded when she was ready.

Quinn used the tip of his blade to give the door a metallic clank, like someone knocking softly. The hollow sound of footsteps answered the knock almost immediately. A short moment later, the door cracked a hair, paused briefly as if the person on the other side was listening, then began to yawn open.

Aleksandra gasped when a hand holding a black pistol appeared in the darkness. The fat third finger wrapped around the grip of the gun bore Mikhail Polzin's double eagle ring.

Quinn brought Severance down in a lighting fast arc, separating the gun and gun hand from its owner. Monagas staggered forward, arm reaching as if his hand was still attached. Quinn grabbed the startled thug by his collar and yanked him out, throwing him to the floor.

“The devil take you!” Aleksandra spat and shot him three times in the face.

Quinn looked up at her, gun in his hand now. “What about us being quiet?”

He did a quick peek inside the open door and found Matt Pollard standing fifteen feet away, hidden but for his shoulders and one arm. A green footlocker sat before him, its lid opened like a closet door revealing the shining guts of Baba Yaga.

The top of Zamora's head was barely visible behind a portion of the boiler. There was not enough of a target to get a shot at either man.

“Come on out, Valentine,” Quinn shouted above the hum of machinery. “It's over.”

Zamora threw two wild rounds toward the door. They clanked harmlessly into the heavy concrete wall.

“You?” Zamora cried, giggling. “How funny is that? How is Monagas? Well, I hope. He is quite devoted.”

“He was a serial killer with a sponsor,” Quinn said. “But he's done.”

“You can kill me if you wish, Jericho, but Professor Pollard has already entered three of the five numbers for the code. Once the bomb is armed, there is no disarming it. Thousands will die even if you begin an evacuation now.”

“You're right about that,” Quinn yelled. He tried to edge sideways, cutting the pie for a better shot. The Venezuelan forced him back with another volley of gunfire. “Listen to me, Valentine,” he yelled above the ringing in his ears. “Once that thing is armed, it'll go off right away.”

Aleksandra leaned in, the side of her forehead touching Quinn's. “Do you see the row of small silver tubes?” She nodded at the bomb.

“I do.”

“Shoot them,” she said, keeping her own gun trained on the section of pipe where Zamora hid.

Quinn's head snapped around to look at her.

Pollard's arm moved as he entered the fourth digit of the PAL.

“Shoot them now!”

Quinn let the front sight of his borrowed Glock float over the array of metallic tubes near the center of the bomb. Bracing for an immediate explosion—though he knew it was pointless—he fired three shots.

The rounds slapped into the soft metal, destroying a section about the size of a pack of cards—but nothing happened.

Quinn stared at Aleksandra, but said nothing.

“Trust me,” she said.

“Matt,” Quinn shouted. “Marie and Simon are fine. My friends got them out without a scratch.”

“Lourdes?” Zamora shrieked.

“I hear she's not doing too well,” Quinn yelled. “Now come out. I told you, it's over.”

Pollard stepped into the open and let his fingers slide along the damage caused by Quinn's shooting.

“I can't believe I even considered killing thousands to save my family. . . .” His hand hovered over the numbered wheel.

“Matt,” Quinn shouted. “Come on out.”

“I don't think so,” Pollard said. “I've done a lot of thinking about this. Valentine, you're messed up. But I'm little better than you. Some people are just too evil to be allowed to live.”

“Matthew!” Zamora shrieked.

“Tell Marie I love her,” Pollard yelled to Quinn, keeping his eyes on a cowering Zamora. His voice went quiet, barely audible. “You cruel bastard. Didn't figure on this, did you?”

Pollard's finger fell on the button as the Venezuelan fired. Baba Yaga gave an audible click. Quinn felt a tremendous pressure wave slam into his chest. Unable to breathe, he was vaguely aware of heat and screaming metal and the smell of singed hair . . . then blackness.